Death Sends for the Doctor (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery)

by George Bellairs

  Another significant pause. Gralam seemed to smile at his own thoughts.

  “There were one or two … You can’t blame him, can you? Cooped up there on his own, with only his thoughts for company. His fancy was bound to stray now and then and perhaps lead him into temptation.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Cromwell looked up at Littlejohn. There was a harsh note in the Superintendent’s voice, as though he sensed and disliked Gralam’s murky imagination.

  “There were rumours about certain women. Even gossip about marriage. Madame Alcardi, for example …”

  “Bel canto?”

  “Someone has already told you?”

  “No. I remember seeing her plate on the door earlier today.”

  “She’s a fine-looking woman. Her husband died in an internment camp in the war. Italians. Beharrell was seen calling there after dark sometimes.”

  “He might have been interested in bel canto! Or she could have been a patient.”

  “She could. However … There was a minor scandal brewing, I think, at the time of Beharrell’s death. Mrs. Hope, at the Red Lion across the way. They were too fond of one another and it was getting about. Hope picked her up when he was Beharrell’s chauffeur. He and Beharrell were on holiday together in France and … well … if you ask me, they both brought her home. Only Hope didn’t know at the time. The pair settled down at the hotel. It was convenient for Beharrell. That’s my theory, at any rate.”

  “You think Hope might have been involved in the doctor’s death, then?”

  “I never said so, George couldn’t murder a fly. A spiritless, drunken little cuckold.”

  Another pause. Gralam began to take the porcelain shepherdesses from their case.

  “You didn’t answer the other question, sir. What was Mrs. Beharrell like?”

  Gralam halted, one of the figures in his hand. He caressed it gently. A vase, with foliage exquisitely modelled on it. And sitting beneath the arbour of leaves, two naked women, one with her arm round the younger girl. The elder looked out at the world with a clear innocent expression. The antique dealer ran his fingers down the gracious moulded arm, the flanks, the legs, to the swan reclining idly at their feet. Then he caressed the head and the sharply pointed breasts.

  “She was like this figure … Brown hair which shone like copper when the light caught it.”

  His body stiffened as though in a spasm of pain, and his fingers grew rigid, lost their grip. The figure fell to the ground and smashed into a dozen pieces.

  “Are you all right, sir ...?”

  Gralam sat on one of the Queen Anne chairs,

  “Yes … Don’t worry. I get these little turns. It’s angina. I have to be careful. Stupid of me …”

  “Can I get you anything?”

  Gralam grew irritable.

  “No, no. I tell you I’m all right.”

  He turned to Cromwell, who was picking up the pieces of the shattered vase.

  “You needn’t bother, Cromwell. I’ll shovel them up. Don’t worry …”

  He paused and then spoke in almost a snarl.

  “You think it was exquisite, don’t you? A shame to smash it, even by accident. You needn’t bother. It was a fake … Just a sham.”

  Littlejohn didn’t believe him.

  6

  THE LOST RIVER

  AT the rear of the Guildhall at Caldicott there is a huge cobblestoned area, enclosed by brick walls, topped with broken glass bottles, and locked every night behind large iron gates. It goes by the name of the Town’s Yard, and it is the headquarters of the surveyor’s department.

  Cromwell rang the bell at the window of a small gatehouse marked Enquiries. Ring. An old man with one arm opened the window and without speaking raised questioning eyebrows.

  “Could I speak to Mr. Charlie Baldry, please?”

  Littlejohn had asked the sergeant to make this visit. He was intrigued by the story of the well in Beharrell’s garden, and the man to throw some light on the matter might be the foreman of the digging-party which had opened it up again during the water shortage. Plumtree, very surprised at the turn of events, had supplied all the necessary information. The foreman’s name was Charlie Baldry, who worked like a black, drank like a fish, and had eleven grown-up children. He also was the snooker champion of the corporation staff, had once won five hundred pounds in a football pool, and if there was any more information which Cromwell needed, would he kindly name it and Plumtree would do his best to oblige.

  Meanwhile, Littlejohn had gone to the office of Pochin, Shillinglaw and Pochin to see Mr. Vincent Pochin.

  “I wonder if he’ll still be wearing his yellow gloves,” said Cromwell as they parted.

  “Charlie Baldry?” said the man at the enquiry office. “He’s not won another football pool, has he?” And he seemed to lose all enthusiasm when he learned that it was only the police who wanted to speak to the lucky man.

  “You’ll be lucky if he ’asn’t packed up and gone. There’s a cup-tie replay on tonight between Caldicott Central and Staunton United. Charlie’s a big supporter of the Central, same as I am myself … Are you goin’ ...?”

  “No.”

  “Oh …”

  The gate-keeper gave Cromwell a look of contempt.

  “Well … If he’s not gone, you’ll like as not find Charlie in the pavin’ office. They’re goin’ to take up Sheep Street and cover it with ashfelt and Charlie’s workin’ out what it’ll cost with the borough surveyor, ready for the next finance meetin’. You go right across the yard to that wood hut opposite … You’d better sign the book before you go in. It’s against the reg’lations to go in the yard without signin’ up.”

  Cromwell dashed his signature in the visitors’ book with a flourish and went on his way.

  Acres of paving-stones, old and new, cobblestones, bricks, tar-boilers, steam-rollers rusting because the town now used diesels, dust-carts, watering-carts, suction vehicles for emptying street-grids, piles of old gas lamps just where they’d left them when they turned to electricity … And a square, stone building with the word Mortuary chiselled over the doorway. Finally, the paving office. Cromwell knocked on the door. “Come in,” shouted a ripe, fruity voice.

  Charlie Baldry was a portly, medium-built man with a bald head, a heavy moustache, and a large beery nose. He was alone and stood at a high desk making laborious calculations on bits of paper and grunting noisily as he did so.

  “Hello,” he said in a most friendly voice. “Are you the man from the Trinchomalee Asphalt Company?”

  Cromwell replied he was sorry, but he wasn’t.

  Mr. Baldry seemed sorry, too.

  “Never mind. It’s too late now to be botherin’ about asphalt. I’m just ready for off to the cup-tie replay. Are you goin’?”

  “No. I’m sorry, but I can’t. I’m from Scotland Yard and I’m here on the Beharrell murder case. It’s keeping me busy.”

  Mr. Baldry looked sympathetic.

  “I’m sure it is. It must be a big worry to you. But where do I come in?”

  He swept a lot of papers from a chair and invited Cromwell to sit down, and then thrust his own calculations away in a drawer and put on his cap, just to indicate politely that he wasn’t going to stay there much longer.

  Cromwell passed his cigarettes to Mr. Baldry, who accepted one and offered Cromwell a light from a petrol-lighter almost as large as a miner’s lamp.

  “Where do I come in? I know nothin’ about the murder, though I must say I ’ope you catch and ’ang who done it. I was very fond of Dr. Beharrell. I owed ’im a lot. My wife wouldn’t ’ave been alive but for ’im.”

  “He was a good doctor?”

  “One of the best. We’ve a large family … Five girls and six boys, all grown up an’ married now, except the youngest, as is courtin’ strong and likely to get wed soon. That’s not countin’ the two boys we buried. The last three caused a lot of trouble when they were on the way. Twice, we thought my missus would ’ave di
ed in childbed, but Dr. Beharrell saved ’er. A fine man, and I’d ’ave done ’im a good turn any time …”

  Cromwell had had enough of Mr. Baldry’s family troubles and obstetrics and thought it time to chip in.

  “I mustn’t keep you from your football, Mr. Baldry. But I called to ask you a thing or two about the well behind the doctor’s house.”

  Mr. Baldry thumped the table with his huge fist and laughed hoarsely.

  “The well! Of course. I’d forgotten all about that affair.”

  His face grew serious and he leaned earnestly towards Cromwell.

  “You don’t mean to say that that well’s anythin’ to do with the murder of the doctor?”

  “No. We’re going into past history about the doctor and his house. Just a bit of background, you know. The more we find out about the environment and life of the victim in cases like this, the more we’re likely to discover about who might have killed him.”

  Mr. Baldry eyed his visitor with admiration, his dark eyes under thick bushes of eyebrows wide with wonder.

  “Oh … Yes, I see. Environment and life. I see. It’s amazing what science can do nowadays, isn’t it? And the well comes in it, does it?”

  “In a way. You were in charge of opening it up again after the doctor had had it filled in, weren’t you, Mr. Baldry?”

  Mr. Baldry nodded sagely, and then removed his cigarette, flicked off the ash, put it in his mouth again, and spoke round it.

  “Yes. But let’s get it all clear first, Mr. Cromwell. Let’s get it all clear. What ’ave you been told already about it?”

  “Just that in the drought of 1947, the water board had the idea of re-opening the well and getting supplies from it, but the doctor objected until he found he could be forced to give way. Then they allowed you to get on with the job. I did hear, too, that the doctor was a bit obstructive.”

  In the course of this recital Mr. Baldry’s lips drew tighter and tighter and he grew more and more annoyed until he couldn’t remain silent any more.

  “I don’t know ’oo told you that cock-and-bull story. Was it that Trott woman? It’s jest all poppycock. This is what really ’appened …”

  Mr. Baldry looked at the office clock, an alarm variety which stood on a shelf and furiously punctuated all that was being said by an incessant tick-tack.

  “I’ve jest seven minutes before I must go. I always ’ave a pint on my way out, at the Merry Waggoners, and I ’ope you’ll do me the honour of joinin’ me, Mr. Cromwell.”

  “The pleasure’s mine and the drinks on me.”

  “We won’t quarrel on that score. Well … It was this way. I must first explain that there are two underground streams run under Caldicott. Lost rivers, as you might say. We knew of their existence, Mr. Cromwell, but not havin’ much use for them, we neglected them and we lost them. See? They changed their courses and when we tried to get at ’em from the old maps when the drought was ’ere, we found they’d gone … Jest vanished.”

  He waved his arms about like a conjurer making things disappear.

  “Now … Follow me closely … Now, it was recorded that the old well in Dr. Beharrell’s garden was right on the course of one o’ them rivers, the River Cockle it’s called on the old maps. We tried borin’ in other places without success and then we thought of the doctor’s well and asked if we might open it up and explore … The doctor played merry ’ell and said he wasn’t ’avin’ his back garden ruined. It was a bit embarrassin’ for me, I can tell you, Mr. Cromwell. I owed the doctor a lot for what he’d done for the missus, yet ’ere was the water board goin’ to make an issue of openin’ up the well. Bit awkward, eh?”

  “Very.”

  “Eventually, it was me that settled it all. There was talk of a law case about it, when I thought I’d do my best to prevent things bein’ awkward for the doctor. I called one night. I told ’im that I would be in charge of the operations, so to speak, and I’d see to it that it was done neat and proper and no disturbance or fuss.”

  Mr. Baldry offered Cromwell a small cigarette from a soft packet and lit it for him.

  “We’d no idea of startin’ a sort of waterworks in the doctor’s back garden. We just wanted to open the well, clear out the old bricks and rubble the doctor had filled it up with, then drive down a borehole to see if the stream or spring was still there. Then, we’d have ’ad some idea of the direction of the old river and put up a pump and pumping station at the nearest convenient place. That was all.”

  “The doctor agreed?”

  “Yes, after I’d told ’im we’d cause no trouble. He did say that we’d ’ave to pack up now and then and suspend operations if it wasn’t convenient for us to be there. I said that ’ud be all right and I’d see it was done.”

  “And that ended it?”

  Mr. Baldry hesitated and Cromwell thought he saw a look of doubt and then cupidity come in his eyes.

  “Yes, that was all,” he said hastily. The sergeant got a vague idea that Mr. Baldry had something on his mind. He seemed to be sizing Cromwell up, wondering if he were friend or foe.

  Finally he rose ready for off.

  “It avoided a rather awkward situation, too. You see, Mr. Shillinglaw, the lawyer, was solicitor to the water board and ’is partner, Mr. Vincent Pochin, was Dr. Beharrell’s lawyer. If there’d bin a law case, it would’ve been a bit queer, one partner on the one side and the other on the other. Brothers-in-law, too … I suppose lawyers do get such funny sitchewations and are slippery enough to get out of them. Well, what about our pint o’ beer together, Mr. Cromwell?”

  “With pleasure …”

  Mr. Baldry clocked-out at the gatehouse and led the sergeant across the way to a working-class pub round the large counter of which a number of workmen, presumably from the corporation yard, were drinking pints of beer in glass tankards. It was a warm evening and Cromwell grew thirsty at the sight of them.

  “Evenin’, Charlie.”

  A number of men who were greeted back by Mr. Baldry as Percy, Alt, Edgar, Len and Ted, gave Cromwell searching looks and wondered who he was. The sergeant was wearing his bowler and they guessed he might be a traveller for tar, paving-stones, gravel, or asphalt, or else one of the directors of the rival team visiting the town for the football replay.

  “Well, Charlie, I guess Central ’ave ’ad it tonight.”

  Charlie ignored this piece of treachery.

  “Two pints of bitter, Blanche.”

  The blonde barmaid handed out the drinks, giving Cromwell a flashing smile and a careful scrutiny as she did so. Then Charlie flung his bombshell.

  “Allow me to introduce to you Detective-Sergeant Cromwell, of Scotland Yard, who’s ’ere on the Beharrell case.”

  There was a hush as the men looked with awe on Charlie and his new pal. Then they all shook hands with him. Cromwell stood pints all round. Percy, Alt and Edgar next paid in turn for pints, and Len and Ted were dying to do the same, when the clock struck half-past five. The kick-off was at six.

  “Here,” said Mr. Baldry, settling his cap on his head. “They kick-off in half an hour. This means I’ll ’ave to go straight from ’ere to the field. No tea, and I shan’t be able to ’ave a proper wash and brush up …”

  He turned to Cromwell with a very warm-hearted look and the sergeant, feeling the same way himself, nodded agreeably.

  “I say, Mr. Cromwell, as you are the cause of me bein’ late, what about comin’ with me to the match? I’m sure your boss’ll let you off if you telephone ’im. All work an’ no play makes Jack a dull boy. If you don’t come, I shall take it very much amiss.”

  Cromwell hesitated. The beer and the good company of Percy, Alt and the rest had undermined his resistance and he inwardly told himself that this might also be in the line of duty. Didn’t Littlejohn always believe in getting the atmosphere of the place and the people on a case? Well …

  “If the missus plays merry ’ell because I’ve not been ’ome to my tea before goin’ to the match, I can say I
met a friend and we went there together.”

  The large black eyes under the bushes of eyebrows pleaded hard and Cromwell gave way.

  “All right. I’ll ring up the boss, then. There’s a ’phone here, is there?”

  “Tha’s right. We’ll have a wash first, then we’ll have a couple of meat pies and a pint o’ beer, just to keep away the pangs o’ hunger, and after that we’ll go an’ watch Central knock ’ell out of Staunton. Come on.”

  They had the tiled lavatories of the pub to themselves and sluiced themselves with water and cleaned themselves up. Here it was that Mr. Baldry, convinced by beer and fellowship that Cromwell was a jolly good sort, came out with his final confidence.

  “One thing I didn’t mention across at the office, ole chap. It was a bit awkward and I was a bit embarrashed on account of a promise I made to Dr. Beharrell. Now he’s dead and gone, so I don’ suppose the promise is bindin’ any more.”

  He looked ready to shed a tear or two for the dead doctor.

  “In the course of our talk together about the well, the doctor up and asked me if I’d do him a favour. ‘Anythin’, doctor’, I sez. ‘I owe you a good turn, sir, and you’ve on’y got to mention it.’ Then, he asks me a funny thing. Well, it seemed funny at the time, but thinkin’ it over, for a doctor, p’rhaps it wasn’ so funny after all.”

  Mr. Baldry drew close to Cromwell and imparted his secret in a hoarse whisper.

  “‘Baldry’, says the doctor, ‘you might find somethin’ queer when you get to the bottom of that well. “Wot might that be, sir?’ I asks. ‘Bones’, he sez. ‘Bones?’ I sez, surprised like. ‘Yes, Baldry’, sez the doctor. ‘You see, in my student days I ’ad a skeleton in connection with my studies, which I kept in the lumber room for a long time. Then, when I was doin’ a bit of clearin’ up, I decided to throw a lot of stuff away. I put the rest in the dustbin, but I couldn’t hardly put the skeleton in, could I, Baldry?’ I admitted he couldn’t without causin’ a hell of a lot of fuss among the dustmen. ‘So, I jest chucked ’im down the well, Baldry.’ I said if I found it, I’d give it back to him to dispose of elsewhere. ‘Don’t let anybody see you, Baldry. You promise that.’ I knew ’ow awkward it would be if I was seen with a lot of yewman bones, so I promised.”